


chaos of thought and passion, all confused

by lavenderseaslug



Category: The Favourite - Fandom
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 12:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17001660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: “That wasn’t very nice,” Sarah says when they’ve parted and Anne feels a sharp flaming poker of shame slice through her. “But I assume you’ll get better with practice.” It’s Sarah who leans in for a kiss this time, confident and brazen, a spitfire, an untamed mare.





	chaos of thought and passion, all confused

The first time they kiss is when they’re sixteen, apple-cheeked and giddy, pressed together in the woods behind the palace, just out of sight. Sarah’s been flirting with everyone all day long, batting her eyes and pursing her lips, dashing away from Anne’s side to chase after one of the stableboys brave enough to come and sit with them. She’s pretty as a painting, long hair, long legs, laughter spilling from her lips. Almost at once, Anne feels overcome with the need to do something. Sarah is hers. Hers and no one else’s. 

And so she takes Sarah’s hand, her delicate fingers, iron wrapped in porcelain, and leads her to a small copse, presses their lips together awkwardly.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Sarah says when they’ve parted and Anne feels a sharp flaming poker of shame slice through her. “But I assume you’ll get better with practice.” It’s Sarah who leans in for a kiss this time, confident and brazen, a spitfire, an untamed mare.

 

Sarah marries just a year later, dressed in finery, looking demure under her veil, though her eyes still flash. She becomes a Duchess, a fair companion to the woman who will be queen. Anne feels that same sense of ownership as she watches Sarah take her vows, the idea that someone might know this woman better than her. She allows the Marlboroughs two hours together, two hours for them to do whatever it is spouses do, and then demands that Sarah be brought to her bedchambers, that no one else will do.

“What?” Sarah says, when she arrives, hair in tangled disarray, her night shift hanging off her shoulder, her skin luminous in the candlelight. There are no pleasantries for Anne, there never are. 

“I missed you,” Anne says, knowing how plaintive her voice sounds, watches the way Sarah’s face changes, softens, but always the hard edge just below the surface, never letting Anne sit quite easily. 

“You missed me?” Sarah says, hiking up her skirts and taking a large step on the bed, so she’s at Anne’s feet, her hands already on Anne’s ankles, bare and cold, and her fingers are like firebrands. “Do you wish to keep me here, chained up like a bird in a cage?” Her hands move to Anne’s knees, and Anne feels a stirring, an awakening, a hope. “Or is there something else you wish, _Majesty_.” The title drips from her tongue like acid-streaked honey and there’s no deference meant at all. 

Sarah’s mouth is bruising as she leans over Anne, hair falling, a curtain for their faces. Her teeth are sharp, pulling at Anne’s lower lip, pulling her face into the pout she so often wears. Anne wants to bruise too, wants to leave behind a mark that will tell Marlborough, tell the world, just who it is that Sarah belongs to. 

Anne spreads her legs, makes room for Sarah to settle between them, but Sarah straddles her instead, hips open wide, her gaze ravenous, victorious, as she looks down at the queen pinned beneath her. Her nails are sharp as they scrape down Anne’s untouched flesh, leaving trails of reddened skin and Anne wonders if she’s being marked as well. Who would dare mark the future queen?

 

When Anne marries six years later, she looks into the assembled peerage, hopes to see something in Sarah’s face, jealousy or despair. But her face is calm, implacable, almost as if she’s bored by it all. There’s dancing, afterwards, but Anne’s leg is starting to hurt, just pins and needles every once in a while, a throbbing that keeps her from throwing herself with wild abandon.

But nothing stops Sarah, her laughter echoing as she touches hands with her husband, whirls around to clasp the hand of another man of court. Anne glances at her husband and he smiles wanly, inclines his head to her. Such a peaceable man. Such a shame she doesn’t want peace.

Sarah flits about, landing only briefly to whisper congratulations in Anne’s ear, her lips so close, breath warm has it caresses her cheek. Her tongue flicks out and touches the shell of her ear, darting and quick like a viper, and then she spins away again, leaving Anne behind, leaving Anne bereft, like the light’s just gone out, a candle’s just been snuffed. 

That night, her husband lays atop her, moving back and forth and she feels not an eighth of the pleasure she feels when Sarah’s hand is on her thigh. She closes her eyes and thinks of the other woman, at once hating the power she has, hoping Sarah thinks of her too. When George rolls over, when his snoring fills the air, Anne slips from his bed, makes her way to her private suite of rooms, a candle fisted in her hand. 

She doesn’t even have to tell the footman to bring Sarah, the woman is already waiting there, prettily arranged in a chair, skirts folded just so over her lap. “How is your new husband?” she asks, venom in her words and Anne stops.

“Shouldn’t a queen have a consort?” she asks, just out of reach of Sarah’s hands and she can see the other woman’s face shift into one of belligerence. “He’s nicer than you anyhow.” Her words taunt, she sees the portcullis of Sarah’s mind come down, her mind working, and Anne is fearful, excited, to see what she does next.

“You want me to be nice?” Sarah says, her voice all sweetness and roses. She stands, her skirts swishing, hitting the floor, hiding her feet. “You want me to be pleasant?” She moves closer to Anne now, an arm coming out in a caress, and Anne feels as if she’s being circled by a snake. “You want me to be kind?” Her voice now a whisper, her lips at Anne’s ear, her teeth scraping just slightly. 

And then she pulls away, a vacuum of air where she once stood and she is now the one haughtily out of reach. “Or do you want _me_?” 

Anne doesn’t think of her station, doesn’t think of what others might think, doesn’t think of a single thing as she blindly reaches out for Sarah, her hands grasping, her heart dictating, her mind slow, silly, unable to keep up with the desires of her passion. 

Sarah lets Anne come to her, holds her arms, fingertips leaving bruises in her flesh. “You would rather have honest than kind,” she says, waiting for Anne’s nod before she kisses her. She feels the burning of passion deep in her belly, a fire waiting to be stoked, lye burning at her insides. “You would rather have sincerity than goodness.” Again, she witholds until Anne nods, but when Anne succumbs, she flicks her tongue out, slides it between Anne’s teeth, devours her mouth whole. 

“You would rather have me than the whole of Britain.”

 

Mary tells her not to be friends with Sarah, not to trust her. She says there are lies in her words and that she means to use her position to exploit the crown. “You are quite boring,” Anne says. “It seems all you want to do of late is talk to me of Sarah. I don’t even talk about her that much and she’s _my_ companion.” Anne doesn’t see Mary again, doesn’t find it in herself to be sad about it.

There’s a smugness to Sarah when Mary leaves court, like a cat well-fed with cream. Anne hears rumors that Mary slapped her before she left, that Sarah didn’t flinch.

When she’s made Mistress of the Robes, Sarah ties the ornate gold key to her waist, the candles in the dim light of the hall flicker, dance on its reflection. She wears it as proudly as a crown, as if she’s been made queen over all and not just Anne’s lady-in-waiting. 

The key clanks to the floor that night when Anne slides her dress from her shoulders and she takes great pleasure in kicking it aside, didn’t like the look on Sarah’s face, didn’t like feeling small in the presence of this woman, in front of her court. But Sarah is vibrant, exuberant, painted with many shades, and Anne often feels drab, a colorless smear in comparison. She only feels alive when Sarah’s hands are inside of her, when her tongue laps at her, when she smiles up from between her legs, her mouth absolutely coated, her expression sated.

There’s lust in her eyes, lust that can’t only be satisfied by her position in Anne’s bed, and Mary’s words echo in Anne’s mind. As if she sees the change overcoming Anne’s disposition, Sarah rises to her knees and crawls up her body, fingers leading the way, firm and arousing as she strokes Anne’s stomach, pulls at her nipple, caresses her cheek. “I shall be able to come see you whenever you like now,” she says, a whisper in Anne’s ear. “In the middle of the night,” she sucks Anne’s earlobe between her lips, the feel of her teeth making Anne squirm. “In the middle of the day,” her hand slips back between Anne’s thighs. “Whenever. You. Like.” Each syllable punctuated with a twist of her fingers, her knuckles deep inside, making Anne pant. 

She’ll never be free of Sarah, and the thought is as alluring as it is upsetting, and then it is just as easily banished from her mind as Sarah flicks at her clit and makes her come.p


End file.
